


Ritual Confessions

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 02:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Buffy learns of a surefire way to defeat Glory. SPOILER ALERT: It's a smutty way.





	Ritual Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the anonymous patron who prompted this fic! Thanks to Sigyn for betareading!

Giles had told her about the ritual early on, only a day or so after the delegation of Watchers had left, in the vaguest of vague terms.

“I think I may have found something that could allow us to defeat Glory,” he’d said in a suspiciously-diffident voice.

“Really?” She’d been excited, of course. “Tell me all about it.”

“I would, er, really rather not.” He’d started aggressively cleaning his glasses.

“Giles! You have to tell me!”

He’d sighed in resignation. “Well, there’s a ritual.”

“I can do rituals. I did a really good job with that Man Behind the Curtain thingy.”

“It involves Latin.”

“I got a C in French. That’s, like, almost Latin.”

“And, er, the slayer.”

“Giles, I’m the slayer! Come on, tell me about the ritual.”

“It states that…” He sighed again. “It states that the slayer must, er, perform the ritual with one who is dead yet still lives.”

“Okay, so the undead. Got it. This is, like, right up my alley, Giles. What do I have to do?”

“Not just any, er, member of the undead. It states that, well, it must be one who has been ‘pierced by the flesh of the hellgod.’”

“Okay, minor stumbling block, but we can put out an ad in the personals. So what’s the ritual?”

Giles’s face was kind of turning green. “Well the slayer must…” He mumbled something unintelligible.

“Must what? God, Giles, just spit it out.”

“The slayer,” he said more loudly, tugging at his collar, “must have intercourse with the, er, other party.”

Buffy frowned. “Intercourse?” She thought about that for a bit. “Oh, so this is one of those euphemistic arcane-speak uses of the word ‘intercourse,’ right? Like, you know, having a conversation, or something?”

He harrumphed, cheeks pink. “I’m afraid not. It is, I fear, the, um, more common use of the word in modern English.”

She opened her mouth and closed it.

Giles cleaned his glasses more furiously.

Buffy blinked a few times, then opened her mouth and closed it again.

He set his glasses back on his face, smiling vaguely, as if he hadn’t just said something utterly horrifying.

Finally Buffy managed to get her voice to work again. “You mean sex.”

“ _ I  _ don’t mean anything,” Giles blustered, turning pinker. “It’s the text. I am merely the translator.”

“You’re sure this is the correct translation?”

“Quite positive. It is, er, extremely detailed.”

“How?” Buffy held up a hand. “No. No, don’t tell me. I absolutely do not want you to tell me the details.”

“Quite right.” Giles sighed again in relief. “Well then, I shall just see what else I can--”

Buffy interrupted him. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to  _ know _ the details. I just do not want to hear the details of this... intercourse… in your voice. That’s, like, super gross. Can you just, um, write it down?”

Giles removed his glasses in shock. “Buffy, you can’t mean to--”

“I don’t,” Buffy rushed to say. “I don’t mean to. I just-- well, what else do we have right now?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Just write it down, Giles,” Buffy said softly. “Write it all down, just in case. It’s not like I’m likely to actually use it. I mean, a vampire who’s been ‘pierced by the flesh of a hellgod?’ How are we ever going to find that?”

*

“So she tortured you with a knife,” Buffy said, trying to stay detached but not really succeeding. God, Spike still looked like he’d been run over by a battalion of tanks, even after all the blood-deliveries she’d made. Though at least he was finally healed up enough to have a conversation. That was something.

“Yeah, said she’d peel me like an apple. One long strip.” Spike took a sip of the pigs blood Buffy had brought him. His voice was laced with a weird combination of annoyed humiliation and smug pride. “Never quite got down to that, lucky me. You know, there’s a demon I’ve heard of, eats skin, likes to--”

“And she was asking  _ who  _ the Key was?” Giles interrupted. “Not what?”

Spike nodded. “Knew it was a person. Her scabby minions thought it was me, ‘cause--” His eyes flicked to Buffy and away. “Because.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Because they saw  _ us  _ together.” 

He shrugged sullenly, drinking more blood.

“This is most upsetting,” Giles murmured to Buffy. “It seems Glory is coming closer and closer to the truth…”

“...while we’re still spinning our wheels,” Buffy finished. “Giles, we have to find something, soon. This could be the end of the world. Worse, Glory might do something to Dawn.”

While they were whispering, Spike pulled up his shirt, looking thoughtfully at his scabbed-over wounds. “Yeah, right here’s where she got her strip of skin.” He pointed helpfully. “And this was just after that, a couple good slashes to get me talking. Oh, and before any of that, there was this.” He pointed at a round scab, about an inch in diameter. “This here’s where she bloody stuck her bloody finger right into my bloody chest. Absolutely mental, that bitch. Like she could pull the answer out of me with her bloody fingernails.”

Buffy turned to Spike slowly, feeling Giles doing the very same thing. Synchronized incredulity, the newest Olympic sport. “Say what?” Buffy managed to ask. “She did what?”

“Stabbed me right here with her fucking finger.” Spike pointed again. Buffy vaguely noted that he had really nice abs, if a bit bruised.

“She, er, pierced you?” Giles asked faintly. “With her flesh?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Her finger, yeah.”

Giles did not look at Buffy. He didn’t look so very devotedly that it was worse than if he’d just looked at her already.

“Thank you, Spike,” Buffy said calmly. “I think that’s enough questions for one day.”

“Really?” Spike looked disappointed. “Because I haven’t even told you about the best bit. See, I told her it was Bob--”

“I have to go now,” Buffy said, and she went. She heard Giles stammering out some sort of parting words and then he was right beside her, walking fast to keep up.

“You don’t have to do it,” he murmured when they were well away from the crypt.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she replied.

“There has to be another way.”

“I’m sure there is.”

They walked for several minutes in silence.

“I’m not a bloody pimp!” Giles blurted out, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Of course not,” Buffy reassured him. “First of all, you do not have the right hat. You would need one with more feathers.”

“I’m not wearing a hat.”

“Exactly. And secondly, I do not… engage in intercourse… under your orders. I only… engage in intercourse… of my own choice. I don’t know how old that text-thingy is, but in the twenty-first century, we have this thing called consent.”

“Indeed,” Giles said stiffly.

“Also, I am going to forget we ever had this conversation.”

“Indeed.”

“I may, in fact, forget every conversation we have ever had, just to be safe.”

“Indeed.”

They walked on in silence for several minutes more.

“You wrote it down, right?”

*

Buffy took a deep breath and heaved aside the stone slab, climbing slowly and precisely down the ladder to Spike’s inner chambers. She took another deep breath before turning to face him. 

She could do this.

He was standing by the time she turned around, a few playing cards in his hand dangling by his side. There was a demon she’d never seen before across from him, still sitting and blinking at her with red eyes; he was pink and wrinkly, with floppy pointy ears. His eyes kept flickering down and up, down and up, and Buffy realized he was trying to catch a glimpse of Spike’s hand of cards while also keeping an eye on her.

“Where’s Dawn?”

Spike gestured vaguely over towards the bed. “Wore herself out worrying, finally fell asleep.”

Sure enough, Dawn was sprawled out in the middle of the huge bed, on top of the quilted pink coverlet -- what was up with that? -- with a black chenille throw tucked around her.

“Hi!” said the pink guy. “I’m Clem.”

“Hi, Clem,” Buffy said automatically. “Nice to meet you.”

Spike set down his cards and walked towards Buffy. “Everything go all right, then? The witch?”

Buffy focused on his face, taking in the hard-earned bruises, the obvious concern. Yes, she could do this. “She’s fine. Or, well, not fine, but I got there in time. She’s with Giles, resting. They’re going to pick up Tara in the morning.” Buffy sighed, a bit grudgingly. “You were right. She went after Glory with everything she had, and then some.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Make a dent?”

“Not even a scratch.” She looked over at Dawn. “Spike, how secure is this place? Are there more entrances?”

“Not just now. Sealed off the sewer access a while back.”

“Good.” She looked at Clem, assessing. “Um, can we talk? Like, upstairs.”

“I can watch Dawn for a bit,” Clem volunteered.

Buffy bit her lip. 

“Clem’s good,” Spike assured her. “Or, well, not  _ good _ , he cheats at poker, but he’s safe. Dawn’s safe with him.”

“This may take a while.” Not that Dawn would wake up any time soon, from the looks of her.

“Oh, no worries,” Clem said amiably. “I’m nocturnal. Spike was going to loan me his  _ Charmed _ box sets for the weekend anyhow. I can just, you know, get a head start on the marathon.”

“Um, okay. If you don’t mind.” Buffy walked over to the bed, gently stroking Dawn’s hair back from her forehead. “Love you, Dawnie,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” She turned and watched Spike climbing up the ladder. “No matter what it takes.”

*

When Buffy reached the top of the ladder, Spike was standing in the middle of the crypt, frowning at the door. Or more specifically, frowning at the stone statue Buffy had propped up against the door, blocking it.

“Expecting visitors?”

“Not expecting, per se,” Buffy said lightly, shoving the stone slab back in place above the ladder. “Just, you know, paranoid. Can I borrow your lighter?”

Spike shrugged and fished the Zippo out of his pocket, along with a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up before tossing the lighter over. He seated himself on the edge of one of the sarcophagi while Buffy started to light the candles about the room.

“Do you think they can hear us downstairs?”  _ Breathe,  _ she reminded herself. _ In and out. You can do this. _

“Talking? Well, that slab there is a good six inches thick. Does a pretty good job of keeping out ambient noise. Doubt they’ll hear a peep.”

“Good.” Buffy tossed the lighter back; Spike’s hand flashed up to catch it. “We might get kind of loud.”

Spike’s eyebrows went up. “This one of those conversations, then? Am I in trouble?” He grinned around his cigarette. “Do I get to be spanked?” 

That had been even easier than expected. “Only if you’re very, very good,” she purred, letting her voice drop down low.

He froze in shock. “Uh, all right, then.” He took another wary drag. “You feeling well, Slayer? That Glory chippie hit you in the head?”

She huffed in frustration. Okay, maybe not so easy. “Spike, I need your help.”

“Well, already running a babysitting service,” he shrugged. “Just say the word.”

Buffy didn’t say the word, but she thought it.  _ Intercourse _ . “I need you to help me with a ritual.”

“Never been much for ritual, myself,” he said. “But can do my bit to help. What’s my part? Pouring sand? Wafting the incense?”

“Um, it’s a little more active than that.” God, she wasn’t going to be able to say it; instead she walked over and dragged out of the corner the materials she’d gathered. 

Spike’s eyes narrowed as he took in the Power Girl sleeping bag. “Uh, we having a sleepover?”

“Of sorts,” Buffy said, kneeling to unroll the sleeping bag in the middle of the floor. 

“Well, I have to admit I’m stumped.” Spike stubbed out his cigarette, watching warily as Buffy unloaded the contents of her chic little backpack beside the sleeping bag -- red candles, bag of purified sand, a few baggies of dried herbs, bundled sage, a little bottle of oil, a marble mortar and pestle, a compass, and Giles’s big bottle of fancy Scotch, along with several sheets of paper filled with Giles’s neat, tiny handwriting.

“It’s a ritual,” Buffy said cheerily, carefully not looking at Spike as she adjusted the sleeping bag so the head was to the north and set out the candles at the four cardinal points.

“So you said.”

“And I have to do the, um, ritual with you.”

“Right. And you’re eventually going to tell me what the ritual entails, and why it requires a fifth of Glenfiddich?”

“Oh, um. It doesn’t technically require that. That’s just, you know, to help get you in the mood.” She had slipped it in the bag while Giles was distracted fixing tea for Willow. She’d had the rest of the materials prepped a week ago, just in case.

“The ritual mood.” Spike’s voice was dry as the Sahara.

“Uh-huh!” Buffy chirped. She dumped the contents of the baggies into the mortar, added a bit of the oil, and started industriously grinding away.

“Slayer, what exactly do you expect me to do here?”

She ground harder. “Intercourse!” she warbled.

There was a long silence.

“What?”

“Intercourse,” Buffy repeated cheerily. “You said say the word, and I am saying the word. The word is  _ intercourse _ .”

She could almost hear gears turning in his head as he processed that.

“Oh,” he finally said. “Like talking, you mean? Communication?”

“No,” she said precisely, adding a bit more oil to her herby concoction. “The other kind of intercourse.”

Another long pause, and then he snorted. “Pull the other one!”

“The other what?”

“Is this some kind of elaborate vengeance for the Bot?” he sputtered, leaping off the sarcophagus and starting to pace. “Or Candid bloody Camera?”

“No, I already told you. It’s a ritual.” She held out Giles’s written translation. “Read for yourself.”

She continued to grind, listening to the paper rustling in Spike’s hands as he read.

“Well,” he finally said. “That is, uh, extremely detailed.”

“It is,” she agreed, setting aside the finely-ground paste. “So, if you want to start by burning the sage--”

“Are you completely sack of hammers?”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I am serious.” She stood and looked him right in the eye. “Deadly serious.”

“You really intend to go through with this,” he said, voice dripping disbelief.

“Uh-huh!”

“And you expect  _ me  _ to go through with this?”

“Well, duh.”

“How desperate for a shag do you think I am?”

She rolled her eyes. “You were doing  _ Harmony _ .”

He sniffed. “She had… she was… Well, she was  _ there _ , wasn’t she?”

Buffy folded her arms. “I am also here. Why are you suddenly playing all hard to get? Do I need to pretend to be a robot pretending to be me?”

“Oh, right, throw _ that _ back in my face. That’s a good way to get me to do you a favor.” He began to yammer on about a man having his pride and yadda yadda yadda. God, did he ever shut up?

All right, time to break out the big guns. Or, um, the modestly-sized-but-still-attractive guns. Buffy took the hem of her shirt in her hands and peeled it off over her head. 

Spike shut up.

“Look, Spike,” Buffy began, firmly planting her hands on her hips.

“Oh, I’m looking.”

“Okay, I’m asking you to look metaphorically here. Glory came after you because her minions thought you were the Key. She just brain-sucked Tara because she thought  _ she _ was the Key. I cannot afford to have my friends and allies picked off one by one until she finally figures it out by process of elimination.”

“And which am I?” he asked, still looking at her bare chest with single-minded attention.

“What?”

“Am I a friend, or am I an ally?”

“Neither. Both. It doesn’t matter.” Buffy folded her arms again; from the way Spike’s eyelids twitched, she imagined it did interesting things to her boobs. She’d spent a good twenty minutes deciding what bra to wear for seducing-an-ex-enemy-to-save-the-world before finally tossing them all aside in frustration, but apparently going braless had been the right move after all. “What I’m saying is, I can’t afford to get all prissy and up on my high horse when there is so much at stake. I have a way I can fix this. It is my sacred duty to do it.”

“Your duty,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read the fine print on her nipples.

“Yep.”

He looked at her face then, jaw set. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, I won’t do it.”

Buffy looked down at her chest, then back at Spike. “Not big enough?”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re bloody perfect, Slayer. But a man has to have principles.”

“Principles? Since when?”

“I’m not just a gigolo, Buffy.” He started pacing again. “I have feelings, too.”

“Feelings.” Well, okay, she knew that. That was why she’d figured he’d go along with it. 

“Yes, slayer. Feelings.” He folded his arms, face mutinous. “A man likes to feel like he’s at least wanted for himself.”

“You commissioned a sex robot.”

“A sex robot who wanted me.” His eyebrows shot up challengingly. “Do you want me?”

“Well I want you… to do this ritual with me,” Buffy said lamely.

“All right,” Spike said, lifting his chin. “I’ll do it. You talked me into it.”

“It’s for the sake of the world, and for Dawn, and-- oh, you said  _ yes _ .” She heaved a deep breath. “Thank god.”

“Not exactly known for my noble self-sacrifice,” he shrugged. “But you have to give me a crumb.”

“A crumb?” Buffy blinked. “I didn’t bring any cookies.”

“I’m not the bloody Cookie Monster,” Spike growled. “Do I look fuzzy and blue? No, I mean a crumb of… a crumb of wanting.” He looked at her then, expression weirdly naked. “Tell me this isn’t just for duty. Tell me you’ve at least… I dunno, imagined it, or wondered, or dreamed--”

“I have!” Buffy said quickly. 

“Oh, really? Do tell.”

“I really, really have,” she hedged, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Because, well, she’d spent a lot of time thinking, coming to the decision to go through with the ritual, but she hadn’t expected to have to tell him about it. She’d expected a lot more wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and a lot less True Confessions.

But he wasn’t backing down. “Which one, then?”

She sighed in resignation. “All three.”

He sagged against the sarcophagus, catching himself with a hand. “All right then. Tell me.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment in preparation, letting her hands fall to her sides. But yeah, she could do this, too. She’d already been through all this in her head, all the time she’d been considering this course of action. She’d dug all sorts of shameful secrets out of her psyche in the process, held them up to the light, and she supposed he deserved to hear some of them, under the circumstances.

“The dreams were first,” she said softly. “They started right after I met you, back after our first fight. And then again, after every fight. I’d go home, and I’d dream that instead of trying to kill each other, we were….” She shrugged. “You were hot, and I was a ball of hormones. Fighting you was… well, it was sexy.”

“It was,” he said in a low voice.

“After we teamed up, when I left Sunnydale… that was when I started imagining. I used to lie there in my bed after a hard night of waitressing, or, um, in the bath, and I would imagine what it would have been like if you hadn’t left. Or if you’d taken me with you. If it had been me you’d loved. I used to--” She faltered, not sure she could say more.

“Touch yourself?” 

“Yes,” she whispered, trembling. He took a prowling step towards her and another, and she smiled faintly, because she had him. She had him now. Though he had her as well; it was hard to tell who was in control. And confessing to Spike was -- she couldn’t help but admit -- making her hot.

“How?” His voice was mesmerizing. “Show me.”

She bit her lip, because she’d never done anything like this before -- but of course she hadn’t, not anything like this, duh, and the hungry look in her eyes gave her courage. She curved her hands around her breasts, stroking her nipples with her thumbs. “Like this. To start.”

He groaned. “Was there more?”

She nodded, though she wasn’t quite ready to show him that, not quite ready to hold that particular memory up to the light. But the look in his eyes was doing things to her insides, tingly things, and her breasts were suddenly twice as sensitive as they’d been; she rubbed a little harder, a tiny whimper of arousal breaking free of her throat.

His jaw twitched as he watched her. “And the wondering?” He took another step closer.

“I always wondered about you,” she said, hearing her voice catch with desire. “You’re a pretty unusual vampire, and I wondered what made you tick.” She swallowed, and gave him the hardest truth, the one that wasn’t just about bodies and hormones and lust. “But the other day, I wondered more. I came to you pretending to be your robot, expecting to find out you’d betrayed us, that you’d told Glory about Dawn to save your hide. And you hadn’t. You’d taken all that torture, and you hadn’t given us up, and it was because you cared. And I wondered what it would be like if I just let you love me.” She smiled again, softly. “That was one reason I kissed you.”

He was right in front of her then, eyes blazing. “And are you going to, then? Let me love you?”

“Tonight, yes.” She stopped touching herself and set her hands to his cheeks. “Just for tonight.”

“That’ll do,” he groaned, and he bent down to kiss her.

It wasn’t the same as when they’d kissed before, not the deep, assured kisses when they’d been spelled into engagement, nor the soft, tentative brush of lips when she’d seen his loyalty proven. His lips were urgent and desperate, and she could feel her own urgency, like a dam had burst and let everything she held inside come rushing out, all the stress and the fear and the grief and the rage and, yes, the wanting, she wanted this, she had secretly wanted this for years, and tonight she could let herself have it.

“We have to do the… the things,” she whispered against his lips at last. “The ritual things.”

“Right. Uh, sage.” He looked around, eyes frantic.

“First things first,” Buffy said, and slid her hands under the lapels of his duster. “I think this is just going to get in the way.” She slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, scooching the heavy leather along until it fell to the floor. She kicked it away from them. He dug his hands into her hair, looking at her with fathomless eyes as she tugged at the hem of his shirt, and then lifted his arms, helping to shimmy it off. The shirt went off into a corner.

She couldn’t help but run her fingers over his stomach, up his bare chest, enjoying his cool smooth flesh the way she’d imagined, and then her hands wandered up around his neck and she pressed closer, rubbing her sensitized nipples against him, and oh god, it felt so good, she did it again, and again, feeling his hands fumbling at the button of her slacks, and then they were loose and he slid his hands inside to cup her ass, pressing her closer, and then he fell to his knees, tugging her pants and underpants down, and she set her hands on his shoulders for balance as he unzipped her boots and methodically stripped everything off until she was naked, barefoot on the cool stone floor, and he slowly stood, trailing his hands up the outsides of her thighs and then lightly up her stomach to her breasts. He didn’t linger, though, just brushed over and kept on until he was cupping her face in his hands, looking at her steadily.

She looked right back, smiling with determined bravado, and started in on his belt.

It took her longer than she would have liked to get it undone -- her fingers were shaking with a mix of nervousness and desire, plus she was all caught up in Spike’s eyes and didn’t want to look away -- but when she finally had it unbuckled, she popped the button of his jeans and scooped her hand inside, stroking tentatively, watching the way his eyes dilated, suddenly powerful.

She smiled at him, feeling radiant, and knelt to finish stripping him, until he was as bare as she. “Now,” she said as she rose to her feet, giving him another stroke on the way up. “Now you can burn the sage.”

He had to dig for his lighter, of course, in the pile of discarded clothing, and while he did, she walked to the center of the sleeping-bag-compass she’d set up, scooping up the written instructions on the way.

“Walk around the perimeter three times, yeah?” he murmured when he finally had a good smudge of sage going.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, glancing at the instructions quickly, but then returning her gaze to him, watching as he walked. He wasn’t doing the prowly thing, though there was a roll to his gait that was likely instinctive; he was just walking, naked and unashamed, but it was somehow more intimate and sexual than if he’d been doing a Chippendales dance.

When he finished the third circuit, he set the smoldering sage and lighter by the north candle and turned to her expectantly; he was vibrating like a tuning fork, she realized, and so was she, the deliberate preparations just making her hotter.

“The sand circle,” she said, feeling the tremble in her own voice. “Around the outside of the candles.”

He poured the sand in a creditably round circle while she gave her herb paste a stir, making sure it was good and combined, and when he’d closed them inside the circle of sand, she had him light the candles in order, north then south, east then west.

His belly trembled when she knelt before him to paint the mystic symbols, one around his navel and another on each hip, and then she stood before him, feeling like a queen as he knelt and performed the same service for her, and then the preparations were all done and she felt lost for a moment, because even with all the detailed instructions for which way her head had to face and what they had to say and when, she wasn’t quite sure how to get from here to there. So she just stood and looked down at Spike on his knees, at his stormy eyes looking up at her.

After a moment, Spike sighed and handed her the papers. “Read me the instructions.”

“You read them already,” she whispered.

“I did,” he said, voice hinting at laughter. “But I want to hear them in your voice.” His hands curved around her calves, making her knees weak.

“Okay. Um. So we did the stuff, and now it says, ‘The slayer must… must pleasure her consort and her consort must pleasure her, with… with mouths and hands and bodies. They must engage in external congress until the slayer’s... Yoni has been softened and loosened and is ready for, um, carnal connection.” Spike’s hands were slowly sliding up the backs of her thighs, and she could feel him watching her face. “Her consort must then, um, penetrate her and they must engage in intercourse in the, uh, postures of their choosing until both are satiated.” She skipped over the bit where it named a number of postures that were supposedly especially effective, partly because it was even more embarrassing and partly because she kept getting caught up in what exactly was meant by  _ the jump of a tiger _ or  _ the pressing of an elephant _ , neither of which sounded very pleasant. “Upon completion, the slayer’s head must face to the north and she must say the following words:  _ accipe me in tua potestate mea _ . When her consort emits within her, again her head facing to the north, he must say the following words:  _ ad te da mihi potestatem _ . This will cause the power stolen from the hellgod to imbue the slayer, that she may smite them down.” Spike’s hands had made it to the top of her thighs, his fingers curving around her butt, and she subtly shifted her legs apart, willing his fingers to curve in just a bit further, because for some insane reason all this clinicality and formality had her desperate to be touched.

“So,” Spike said conversationally, fingers tracing circles just centimeters away from her… her Yoni. “I’m supposed to get you all hot and wet, fuck you until you come -- you do your chanty bit -- and then fuck you until _ I  _ come -- and I do my chanty bit -- and this will power you up so you can beat the hellbitch.”

“Pretty much,” Buffy said lightly, gasping as his fingers traced closer and closer.

“You didn’t read the bit at the end,” Spike prompted, nuzzling her thigh.

“Oh, yeah.” Buffy lifted the last paper again; it shook in her hands, but she was able to read the last sentence. “Repeat as required.”  _ Required by who? _ she wondered dizzily.

“Right,” Spike growled, and then he reached up and took her hands and tugged her down; she came down gladly, sinking into his lap, and then he was kissing her and kissing her, and then he turned and laid her down precisely in the center of the sleeping bag, her head towards the north candle, setting his lips to her forehead before he sat up, looking down at her with dark wide eyes.

She smiled up at him, suddenly relaxed again. “Well then,” she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

He set his trembling hands to her breasts, thumbs to her nipples, and she arched back, biting her lip, because no matter how she’d touched herself it had never felt quite like this; his thumbs were larger than hers, and smoother, and still slightly cool, his touch both gentler and harder at the same time. She reached up and caught at his flat nipples in response, smiling at his hissed in breath, the way they hardened at her touch, and then he slid one hand down to her thigh, thumb tracing circles just at the crease, and his cool lips wrapped around her nipple, and he sucked at the same time as his thumb slid into her center, pressing hard, pulsing and flicking and and oh god oh god she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, where were her notes? But it was too late, she was cresting, and so she squeaked out the only Latin she could think of.

“ _ Carpe diem _ !”

He laughed into her breast. “Nice try, love.”

She thumped her fist on his back. “I couldn’t remember! Plus, jumping the gun much? That’s supposed to be after you--”

“Got my marching orders, didn’t I?” He sat back and grinned wickedly down at her, setting his palms to her thighs and spreading her wide. “Preparing your ‘Yoni’ for carnal connection,” he purred and just the way his lips wrapped around the words made her shiver, and then he slid down and set his mouth to her and she shouted at the contact, a low guttural cry, and he laughed again and just started to lick at her, strong laps of his tongue that had her clutching at his head and then she was coming again, her thighs twitching, and he didn’t even slow down, just licked harder and faster and she never even came down, just kept going up and up until she was swearing and drumming her heels against his back, and then she was arching and convulsing again, except more so -- god, how had she not known it could be like this? --and while she was still quaking he slid smoothly up her body and smoothly into her and oh, it was like a hot knife through butter, so easily he came into her, and so much it burned her, and at the same time as she was straining up to meet him she was casting her hands around for the papers, one hand clutching at his shoulders while the other tried to find the right page, and she found it just in time, struggling to read through eyes that wanted to go unfocused, but as she started to shake again, tingling all the way out to her fingertips, and she managed to pant out the words  _ accipe me in tua potestate mya  _ and then held on for dear life waiting for the power to imbue her.

Spike kissed her shoulder, still rocking into her. “Think you said it wrong.”

“No, I said the words!” Buffy moaned. 

“It’s  _ may-ah _ , love,” Spike said, his voice catching. “Not  _ my-ah _ .”

“Oh, no!” Buffy grabbed Spike’s cheeks, frantic. “I ruined it! What are we going to do?”

“Try, try again,” Spike laughed, and then he hooked his elbow under one of her knees and shifted the angle of his hips so he was grinding into her from a different direction, and oh wow, was that her voice screaming? But oh, yes, there it was again, she could feel it building, and she arched into Spike’s thrusts and sank her teeth into his shoulder and  _ accipe me in tua potestate mea _ she shouted, and oh. Oh. She felt it, she could feel it flowing into her, power and glory all at once, and suddenly Spike was swearing, and he kissed her hard, driving into her again and again, and he muttered  _ ad te da mihi potestatem  _ fervently into her throat as he jerked and twitched inside her, and there, there was more, she could feel the power filling her, like that time with the spell to defeat Adam except better, deeper, she could feel the power twisting around her core and emanating outwards, and she lay there wrapped around her former enemy and started to laugh, exhausted, incredulous chuckles that made her chest shake.

She felt glorious.

Spike lifted his head, eyes soft, and kissed her on the nose.

“There,” he said softly, satisfaction and regret mingled in his voice. “That what you wanted, Slayer?”

“No,” she managed between gasps of laughter. “I need more.” Her fingers curled into his tousled hair.

“More power?” His eyes were hooded.

“That too,” she grinned, eyes fixing on his. “Just… just give me more, please. Don’t stop yet.”

He groaned and kissed her, long lazy sated kisses, but he was already hard inside her, pulsing slowly, and she drew up her knees, toes urging his hips on until he was thrusting into her in earnest, and oh, she was building up again, she grabbed her paper and was looking for the words when he sat back onto his heels, still thrusting, setting his thumbs right at their point of joining while his fingers spanned her hips and pulled her into each thrust and she arched back, gasping  _ oh god, oh god, accipe me in tua potestate mea _ , and the look on his face when she was able to open her eyes again was just too smug to be borne, and she surged up and wrestled him around, until he was on his back and she was astride him -- facing north, she had that down -- and she glared down at him like a queen and started to swirl her hips, clockwise, then counterclockwise, grinding into him, and he clutched at the floor as his eyes rolled back in his head, and  _ bloody hell, ad te da mihi potestatem!  _ he shouted, his hips bucking off the floor with the force of his release, and Buffy rode the wave, feeling more power surge into her; she scratched lightly at his chest, tracing ley lines of passion on his white skin and watched his face subside from ecstasy into slack wonder, and then she lay forward, sinking like a wilted flower, until she could curl into his chest, tracing hot open-mouthed kisses across his throat until she could feel urgency building again, and she pushed herself up to glare at him through her tangled hair. 

“More?” he asked, laughing, and “More!” she demanded, and he rolled her over again, his softened cock slipping out of her, and he carefully arranged her to face in the right direction and then kissed down her body to her crotch and she lay back and sank one hand into his hair, tucking the other behind her head, and it was sweet as cider when he set his tongue to her, gentler than she could have imagined him to be. He sipped from her like she was champagne, and she let the bubbles build and build until she could tell she was ready to pop, and she tugged at his hair and his shoulders and he slid back up and thrust into her hard, again and again, and ah, there it was, and she kissed him and looked into his eyes as she said it,  _ accipe me in tua potestate mea _ , she didn’t need the notes any more, and he kissed her back and groaned but he was also gazing into her eyes as he fervently chanted  _ ad te da mihi potestatem _ and then they kissed and kissed as she felt the power surge to fill her even fuller, she was nearly overflowing with power, but she knew, she knew it wasn’t enough. Not yet. 

They weren’t done yet.

But maybe a little breather would be good. Breathing, definitely good.

Spike rolled off to the side, looking as boneless as she felt, and she gazed up at the cobwebby ceiling for a moment, doing that breathing, in and out, in and out, before looking over at him. She’d half expected him to be all smug and puffed up, but instead he was just looking at her in befuddlement, and she felt a sudden surge of feminine pride, that she’d managed to put that look on his face, even though she was pretty sure she’d tossed ladylike behavior out the window and let herself go in a way she’d never been able to before. 

It was weird, actually, being able to just lie here with him, naked and sweating and quivering with power and aftershocks, and not feel self-conscious, like she should be trying to pose or pretend at virtue. Looking at his face, she suddenly felt she could ask him for anything, anything at all she wanted to try, and he’d not judge her, or think less of her, or try to steer her back into something more ladylike. 

When she’d been with Riley, he’d liked to be in charge in bed, and while he’d never actually said anything to put her down directly, he’d said enough offhand things around the edges that she’d been pretty aware of the things he wasn’t so much a fan of, and tried to steer clear. Especially after the thing with Faith -- which, when she’d recovered from the shock, she’d realized he’d been a victim of; she couldn’t really blame him for being tricked by her own body. But afterwards, when he’d been apologizing for it, she’d been able to read between the lines. He should have known it wasn’t Buffy, he’d said, all contrite. She’d been too aggressive, too demanding, too exhibitionist, and then when Riley had made love to her properly, it had sent her off the deep end.

The word  _ properly _ had stuck in Buffy’s brain, and after that, she’d been self-conscious whenever they’d been in bed together. Was  _ she _ too aggressive? Or too demanding? Was it improper to want to be on top, or to fantasize about doing other things, maybe even a little bit kinky things? And so she’d not pushed, given him what he’d wanted, let him make love to her  _ properly _ , afraid she’d drive him away -- and then of course, irony of ironies, he’d betrayed her and left her anyhow, telling her that it was all her own fault. And of course she’d believed him.

But here was Spike, who’d hated her not a year ago, looking at her like she’d just discovered a new planet, not seeming to care that she’d been aggressive or demanding. He’d been -- if she’d read his ecstasy correctly -- driven around the bend by her taking command, and just as willing to take over and drive  _ her  _ around the bend in ways she’d not even imagined possible.

“Spike?” she asked softly.

“Mm?” 

“What’s the proper way to ma-- have, um, intercourse?”

He snorted. “No such thing.” He reached out to her, stroking his knuckle along her arm. “If you’d describe any of what we’ve done tonight as  _ proper _ then I’ve not been doing things right.There’s only two rules for shagging, pet. Rule the first is pleasure.”

“And the second rule?”

He grinned. “There are no rules.”

She laughed at that, letting her head fall back, and he laughed with her, and then she rolled over on her side so she was facing him square.He shifted to match her, his chest barely a foot from hers, his eyes fervent and -- she would admit it, tonight -- adoring.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“A favorite way?” He looked thoughtful. “Well, if we had handcuffs…”

Buffy flushed. “Sorry, forgot to pack those.”

He grinned in a way that said he’d been teasing, though she got the idea it had still been a teensy bit true. “Well then, think I like it when you fling me down and have your wicked way with me. Riding me off into the sunset. You?”

She wasn’t going to touch the fact that she’d totally been asking hypothetically, since they only had tonight. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s a lot of things I haven’t even tried.” She licked her dry lips before continuing offhandedly. “Like, you know. The translation said stuff about, um,  _ congress of the dog _ , or the  _ mare’s position _ , and, like, I don’t even know what that means.” Though she did have an educated guess.

“Yeah, they liked to get all Wild Kingdom, those older texts,” Spike said, trying to be just as nonchalant, though his voice shook. He reached out and curved a hand around Buffy’s breast, his thumb coaxing her nipple back to hardness. 

“But you know what they mean?”

“Some of them. It all goes back to the Kama Sutra.” He met her eyes. “You’d be bloody brilliant at the mare’s trick.” At Buffy’s  _ go-on-already! _ eyeroll, he smiled wickedly, his voice dipping down low. “You liked being on top, yeah?  Gives you all the control.”

She nodded, licking her lips again.

He slid his hand down her body, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, his fingers sliding through her curls and across her throbbing clit until they were poised right at her entrance. “Lots of ways to fuck with you on top. There’s the usual way, of course.” He casually slid two fingers inside her. “In and out, as hard and as deep and as fast as you want it.” He pumped his fingers a few times, the wet sound loud in the charged silence of the tomb. “And there’s that bloody diabolical thing you did earlier.” He swirled his fingers in a circle, and again; Buffy bit her lip at the pleasure, instinctively joining his movement. “Bloody near dusted me with that. But the mare’s trick, that’s special. See, what you’ll do is take me deep inside you, deep as you can.” He pressed his fingers far into her. “And then what you’re going to do is… just squeeze.”

Hypnotized by his words, Buffy clenched around his fingers.

“Fuck. Yeah. Like that.” He shifted a hair closer. “And then you do it again, and again, until I-- until your man comes. And then you keep doing it, until he’s spent.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers. “Been told it’s bloody Nirvana.”

Buffy clenched again, testing. “You’ve never done it?”

“Never,” he murmured against her lips. “It’s the sort of thing…. It’s a gift, you know?” He kissed her then, in a way that felt like he was avoiding saying the words.

And so she said them for him, when he broke away. “Nobody’s ever wanted to do that for you.”

He ignored that, withdrawing his fingers and tracing a wet trail up her belly. “ _ Congress of the dog _ , that’s just what you’d expect from the name.” He grinned deliberately. “Doggy-style.”

“I’ve, um, heard of that.”

“Thought you had.” Spike kissed her again, hand resting on her hip.

Oh god, he was going to make her say it. “I’ve never done it,” she confessed when he broke to trail his lips along her jaw.

“Haven’t you?” he murmured into her throat.

“Not even once.”

“Crying shame, that.” He just kept on kissing her throat, the jerk. Like he was playing a game -- and all right, she’d known he had a playful side to him, she just hadn’t expected it to come out quite like this. But he wasn’t unaffected; she could feel him shaking, like he was about to shatter. She was shaking, too, about to break apart with need, shaking too with the pent-up power inside her.

Goddammit. “I want to.” She clutched at him, suddenly sick of words. “God, Spike, stop jerking me around!”

He laughed brokenly, and then he was jerking her around literally, hands on her hips and her thighs, arranging her until she was staring right into the flame of the north candle, on her hands and knees, and he was behind her, teasing at her clit with the head of his cock.

“This what you want?” he said harshly, and she could tell from his voice that his control was in tatters, that he was as wound up as she.

“Yes!” she moaned, and then he was probing at her, their hands meeting as they guided him and then oh god he was inside her and she gasped out a guttural shout at the sensation, the candle flame fluttering from the force of her breath. 

He swore into her spine, freezing for a moment deep inside her, and then he started to move, fast and hard, gasping with his thrusts. “Bloody hell, Slayer. Trying to be all-- fuck!-- educational here, but can’t bloody think.” 

“Just don’t stop!” Buffy bit out, and then there was nothing but the sound of their bodies colliding, over and over, punctuated by gasps and grunts, his hands taut on her hips as he pounded into her, and then she was screaming again, her thighs spasming with the force of her orgasm, and she managed to chant out the words,  _ accipe me in tua potestate mea _ , and she didn’t stop chanting, just said them over and over again, because this was just what she’d wanted, she could feel it building again, and she crested again and then he slung his arm under her belly and heaved her up so she was astride him as he knelt and he rubbed harshly at her breast with one hand while the other delved down and massaged her clit as she rose and fell, and oh god she couldn’t even tell any more, she just kept chanting the words, feeling her pleasure rise and fall and burst and implode, feeling the power surge into her again and again, and then he pressed his forehead to her shoulder blade as he jerked and spasmed within her --  _ ad te da mihi potestatem _ , like a vow _ \-- _ and even as she could feel him relaxing and softening within her his hands kept moving, rubbing and massaging, until she sighed into a sweet climax that felt like the sun rising.  _ Accipe me in tua potestate mea _ . And she opened her eyes wide, seeing everything clearly at last.

Oh yes. Yes. She was full of power, almost to the brim. She could feel it, she could feel it, she knew if she reached out now she could squish Glory’s head like a grape, she could tear down a mountain, build a city, she could rule the hills of California with an iron fist.

Or she could give a gift.

She turned her head to kiss Spike, open-mouthed, sliding her tongue hotly against his, and as he groaned and gave himself over to her she lifted herself up, letting out a little sigh as he slid from her, but then she took his shoulders in her hands and turned him and laid him down until he was on his back on her childhood sleeping bag, and she lay relaxed atop him and kissed him gently.

“Guess you’re done, then,” he said, voice resigned.

“Mmm,” she hummed, and kissed him again, and again.

“ _ Are _ you done?” he said the next time she came up for air.

“Mmm,” she hummed again, rubbing her body against his, feeling him harden again beneath her.

He laughed then. “You’re not done,” he said in tones of happy disbelief, and at that she sat up on him, shaking her head.

“Going to have to wait a mite,” Spike purred, suddenly back to being pure masculine ego; he tucked his hands behind his head. “Even a vamp needs to lie back and smell the pheromones once in a while.”

“Oh, yes,” Buffy said sweetly. “You just lie there. Don’t do a thing.” And she curved her hands around her breasts, the way she had earlier, except not shy anymore. “You wanted to know earlier, how I touched myself when I was imagining. Just thought I’d show you.” She let her voice harden. “But this is show and tell only. You can’t move.”

His cock leapt beneath her, though he managed to keep his face challenging, lifting an eyebrow. “I’ll be still,” he murmured.

“Good boy.” She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a stab of pain for who she’d been when she’d left Sunnydale, desperately lonely and starved for love. But this was her moment to take it back, to take that loneliness and turn it into power, literal and metaphorical, and her chance to gift it as well, back to the one who unknowingly had given her a focus for her loneliness and a momentary release from her misery.

She opened her eyes and gazed at his face.

“I was usually in my bathtub,” she said softly. “My apartments were so crappy they didn’t have separate hot water heaters for each place, which sucked when everyone needed hot water, but was nice when I’d get home really late, so I could take a hot bath every night. And I needed… something. Something to make me feel better after a day of rude customers and lousy tips. I couldn’t think of Angel, because… because I’d killed him. It hurt too much. And there wasn’t anybody else that worked for me. I’d either feel embarrassed or feel nothing at all. But then I remembered my dreams, and when I tried picturing you, I felt… something.”

Spike’s eyes were dark as midnight, his biceps tense with the effort not to move.

“And so I’d imagine you were in the tub with me, sitting behind me, that you were touching my breasts. Like this.” She rubbed her own nipples, gently at first, gradually getting more intense, until they were hard against her palms. “But it was never enough, and so eventually I’d slide my hand down my tummy. My left hand, because I was pretending it was you.”

He nodded, clearly mesmerized by the path of her fingers as they traced past her belly button and down to tangle in her own curls. His cock was back to its full length again, deliciously hard against her; she pointedly ignored the fact that it was there, just starting to slowly rub herself, her fingers mere inches from the swollen head..

“I’d start off slow,” she said dreamily, following suit. “Little flicking strokes that got me all worked up. But once I could tell I was ready, I’d--” She was out of words to describe it; she leaned back on her right hand, propped on his thigh, and ran her hand across her swollen pussy, again and again, accelerating, until she came with a strangled cry, vaguely aware that Spike’s cock was throbbing beneath her, that he was groaning with pleasure.

“Bloody hell,” he managed to murmur, licking his lips.

“Sometimes I’d stop there,” Buffy managed to gasp. “But most of the time I’d think, would Spike stop there? And I knew you wouldn’t. I knew you’d want more. And so I’d keep going.” She started to rub herself again, long strokes of her fingers from her wet pussy up to her clit, sometimes adding in a stroke along the tip of Spike’s cock just because,  letting herself gasp and moan, but this time when she felt her orgasm beginning, instead of backing off, she kept on, harder, faster, not letting herself come down, prolonging the ecstasy until her whole body spasmed and she gasped out Spike’s name.

“Buffy,” he whispered reverently.

His hands were on her hips suddenly, and she sat up. “No moving!” 

He jerked his hands away, clasping his hands tautly behind his head again.

“Just lie back,” she growled, and then she reached down and fit his cock to her, taking him deep inside, arching back until he was as deep as he could possibly go, and then she looked down her nose at him and smiled. “You said I just... squeeze, right?”

She clenched around him, experimentally, feeling the way he stretched her, the way he felt inside her, and then she clenched again, and again, and he groaned happily.

“Am I doing it right?” she gasped, building up a rhythm with her internal muscles.

“Fuck yeah,” Spike ground out, eyes closed, his mouth gasping open in ecstasy. 

“What, no clever quips?” Buffy teased, though she herself was having trouble thinking. It wasn’t the same as before -- though it felt good, it didn’t feel like she was building towards any release of her own -- but it was power, this, her strength milking pleasure out of him, and she felt like a goddess. He hadn’t even said the words yet, but she could feel the power flowing into her bit by bit, like she was squeezing every last bit of energy from him, and she closed her eyes as well so that she could just feel, feel his cock as it throbbed in time with her clenching muscles, hear his voice as he started to mutter under his breath, a litany of swear words and encouragement and imprecations, and she started to laugh, drunk with rapture and then his body arched like a bow beneath her and she felt him come, throbbing and jerking deep inside.

“Fuck fuck FUCK  _ ad te da mihi potestatem _ !” he shouted, and then he started to laugh with her.

Buffy opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, and frowned. It seemed awfully bright. “Is it morning already?” She looked down at Spike in confusion.

He was grinning up at her loopily. “It’s not the sun,” he laughed. “It’s you. You’re glowing, Slayer.” He broke the rules then, reaching up a hand to caress her cheek. “Bloody effulgent.”

She looked down at herself then, and wow. She was kind of putting on a light show. How did that even work? But even as she wondered it, she knew. It was time. She’d completed the ritual, she’d been imbued with the power of the hellgod, and it was time to kick some hellgod ass. She got her feet under her, disengaging from Spike, and walked towards the door, stepping out of the circle.

“Forgetting something?” Spike said through his laughter, and when she turned to frown at him, she saw he’d joined her outside the circle, holding a pile of fabric. Her clothes.

She stared at them blankly, wondering how she could possibly be expected to put on pants at a time like this, when she was all kick-ass-glowy.

After a moment, Spike shrugged and dropped the clothing, walking a bit further and picking up a pile of black. “How about this, love?” He held out his duster, for all the world like a squire presenting armor to a knight, and yes, that felt right; she slid her arms into the sleeves and let the leather flare out behind her as she whirled to the door, tossing the statue aside like it was styrofoam.

As she stalked regally off into the night, she heard a muffled oath behind her, and then some thumping noises, and a bit later she sensed Spike approaching her; she glanced off to the side and saw he’d put on his jeans and boots and was running to keep up, which was funny because she felt like she was just walking, but she supposed she was moving faster than usual. It just felt like water flowing.

“Let a fellow catch up,” he said as he matched her pace. “Can’t bloody miss this.”

“You should be watching Dawn,” she said reprovingly. Her voice sounded like it was coming through a loudspeaker.

“Dawn is safe,” he insisted. “I’m coming with you.”

She shrugged then, acquiescing. Dawn was certainly about to be safe. They were almost at Glory’s fancy penthouse, and then they were there, and she didn’t bother with the stairs or the elevator, just bounded up to the balcony of Glory’s whateverth-floor suite and reached out a hand, blowing in the door. She heard Spike cursing back on the ground, but she really didn’t have time to wait.

“Hi, honey!” she boomed. “I’m home!”

Glory was there, whipping her head around petulantly to glare at Buffy’s entrance. “Again? What, I haven’t almost-killed you enough for one night?” She rose from the chaise where she’d been apparently enjoying a foot-massage from some of her minions, raking Buffy with a scorching glance. “And ew, why is your squishy human body naked?”

Buffy smiled serenely and opened her arms to the fray.

*

The fight seemed like it lasted for hours -- or perhaps it was over in minutes; she felt like an external observer, watching in cool amusement as her bare, glowing body pummeled and feinted and struck, sending Glory reeling time and again, while the hellgod’s minions laughably bumbled about the outskirts of their battle, moving in slow-motion to Buffy’s eyes. Every so often one would approach and she would casually fling them aside, never taking her eyes from her foe, and after a bit she realized they’d stopped trying -- or no, they were distracted; Spike had joined their slow-mo ballet, protecting her back, and it filled her with joy even as she knew it was insignificant, that they were all as ants to giants. 

Even with her twice-stolen power, it was a close call; Glory soon recognized Buffy was not as she had been and settled into grim, wordless fury, striking hard enough to send the slayer flying more than once, but in the end Buffy found herself with her bare, glowing foot planted on Glory’s chest, the god’s tattered silk negligee fluttering slowly in the breeze from the destroyed balcony doors, and as she looked down Glory’s face started to flow and change, like rippling water, and Buffy didn’t wait to see her true form -- probably some grody lizard thing, anyhow -- but just grabbed a massive bronze statue off a nearby pedestal and brought it down on the hellgod’s head, with a liquid splatty crunch worthy of George Romero. Glory’s body spasmed and went still as a visible shock wave rippled out through the air and dissipated.

The statue, now that Buffy looked at it more closely, was of Glory herself. Very tasteful.

For a few panting breaths Buffy stood ready, the thought of eighties horror movies filling her with doubt that it was finally over, but then she felt the power and the glow start to leach away and the pain start to roll back in, and the world slowed until she could hear the leprous hobbits wailing in grief, and as she came back to herself, she belatedly realized that she was, in fact, really really naked, and in desperate need of a shower, and she hurriedly tugged the leather duster closed, praying it had buttons somewhere, though she’d never seen Spike wear it anything but open.

She found them -- on both sides, which confused her until she figured out which side had the buttonholes and crossed it over -- and got all fastened up. It fit her surprisingly well.

Spike came up beside her, poking at Glory’s body with his boot. “That the end of her, then?”

“I think so.” Buffy closed her eyes, feeling the tendrils of power caressing her as they left. “No, I know it’s over. I can feel it.” She opened her eyes again, letting out a short, exhausted laugh. “We won.”

He grinned. “Mighty effective ritual.”

“It was.” Buffy turned and looked at Spike. His bare chest was blooming with a few new bruises on top of the scars and contusions left over from Glory’s torture; she reached out and stroked the round scar, the one that had been Glory’s downfall. “Let’s go.”

Spike fell in beside her as she took the stairs down. “Must be anxious to check on Dawn.”

“Uh-huh,” Buffy said absently, her mind whirling.

They walked in silence for a while, across the field where Buffy had killed the snake-thing, through the silent pre-dawn streets -- Buffy walking on lawns as much as she could; now that she wasn’t all Power-Girled-up, being barefoot kinda sucked -- and finally across the manicured grounds of the cemetery towards Spike’s crypt.

Buffy had her hand on the door when Spike finally spoke.

“I’ll leave.”

“What?”

“I’ll leave Sunnydale. You can’t… you don’t want me to stick around, not after--”

“No.” Buffy opened the door and walked into the crypt, leaving Spike to trail after her. The inside still had a few candles burning in sconces, though the red ritual candles had long since guttered out; their sand circle was broken. Buffy strode to the middle and picked up the sleeping bag, wrinkling her nose. That was going to take some Oxi-clean, all right. Wow.

“Right. Won’t take me long to pack, I’ll just--”

“No,” Buffy said again. “I mean, don’t leave. She fingered the lapel of the duster, feeling suddenly awkward. “Um, you don’t need to leave. It’s... okay with me if you stick around.”

He heaved out a huge sigh. “Not the only reason, Slayer.”

Buffy tossed the sleeping bag over a sarcophagus, clean side up. “We can talk about it later, okay? Just don’t… don’t leave yet.”

Spike shook his head, looking away, and headed for the stone slab.

“Where are you going?”

He looked at her like she had three heads. “Check on the Niblet? That was what you wanted to--”

“She can wait a bit more.” Buffy hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the sarcophagus, bare feet dangling. “Come over here first.”

Spike warily approached, coming to stand right before Buffy, narrowed eyes trained on her face.

“Thank you, Spike” Buffy said softly. “Thank you for protecting Dawn, and for helping me tonight. It really does mean a lot to me.”

He snorted. “Wasn’t exactly torment, shagging you.”

“And if I’d told you the ritual ended with me sacrificing you to save the world? If you’d had to die for this all to work? Would you still have said yes?”

“No!” Spike scoffed, but at Buffy’s searching look, he rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell. Maybe.” He looked down at the ground then. “If you’d asked me to.”

“You said yes before I even told you what it was.” She poked his leg with her bare foot. “In fact, you were  _ less _ interested when you found out it was sex.”

He rolled his eyes. “So I’m a bloody idiot.”

She looped her hands around his neck. “Thank you,” she said again, and kissed him.

It was sweet and somehow fragile, the way their lips met, but she could tell that he was pulling away, that he was already checked out and halfway moved out of Sunnydale, and so she let go of his neck, still kissing, and reached down and undid the duster buttons, one by one. She spread the duster wide and tugged him close, until their bare chests met.

He flinched away. “ _ Fuck _ .” He looked at her for a long moment, searching, before he dove back in to kiss her, another curse on his tongue.

“You need more power?” he muttered thickly when she broke away to breathe.

She dipped down to kiss his collarbone. “No.” Her hands came to his cheeks and she held him so she could meet his eyes. God, they were blue, even in the dim candlelight. “The ritual is over. This….” She bit her lip, but no, she’d decided already. “This is just for us.”

He groaned and set his forehead to hers. “You are going to bloody kill me, after all.”

“No,” she said, blinking. “I, um, just wanted to… to choose. To choose this without anything being on the line.”

“I meant metaphorically, love,” he muttered, but then he was kissing her again, desperate, and then he started kissing his way down her belly, and she opened to him eagerly, sinking her hands into his hair as he lapped at her, hands pushing her thighs wide. “Like this, yeah?” he muttered into her crotch, and she realized he was emulating her own rhythm, the way she’d touched herself before.

“Yes,” she whispered, and then  _ yes! _ she groaned and then his hand was flat on her belly, pressing her back onto the sarcophagus and she gave herself over to his tongue, tears leaking from her eyes when she came, and then he was standing, eyes hot on her as he fumbled with his jeans, and she reached out and guided him in, hooking her ankles behind his back as he drove home, and he thrust into her hard until she came again, clutching helplessly at the stone above her head. He froze inside her, watching her avidly in her throes, and then resumed pumping into her, except this time he was almost glacial, deep thorough strokes that penetrated right to her soul.

“How do you like this, love?” he murmured brokenly, taking one leg and stretching it up until it was lain over his shoulder, pressing soft kisses to the side of her shin as he stroked into her, and when she moaned her approval he took the other leg and stretched it out the same way, until her legs were hooked over his shoulders, and then he got a look on his face that looked like he was trying to figure out another pretzel configuration for her limbs, and she reached out and pulled him down, her legs slipping off to the sides, and she looked into his face again.

“This isn’t about you teaching me,” she whispered. “I don’t care what  _ the jump of a tiger _ is, or how many times you can bring me off, or any of the stuff you’re thinking I’m looking for.” She swallowed and made her final confession. “You showed me the man you are, behind the monster. I just want to be with that man.”

And he groaned at that, and kissed her, sweet as molasses, and then they were striving together, no more artifice or planning, just bodies colliding, and when Spike emptied himself into her, Buffy felt full to the brim again, though not with power.

She didn’t know what it was.

After a bit, he raised his head and kissed her on the nose. “ _ Ad te da mihi potestatem, _ ” he whispered.

“I don’t want to take your power,” she whispered back.

“You have it regardless,” he muttered into her throat, and then they kissed again, like a farewell. Which it was, she supposed, but she didn’t want it to be.

“Don’t go,” she managed to say. “Please stay. At least for now.”

He sighed gustily into her throat. “All right,” he said. “I’ll stay. You talked me into it.”

She held him close, waiting for the dawn.

*

They celebrated the averted apocalypse in traditional Scooby style, with pizza and movies at the Summers residence, along with lots of caffeine, just in case. Xander even swung by the movie theater and got a ticket to a random movie so he could buy a few huge bags of authentic popcorn for the occasion.

“Defeating a hellgod while the world slept is worth a couple twenties, am I right? And I know the Dawnster wants that real butter flavor.”

Buffy had smiled noncommittally. She hadn’t told them exactly what had gone into defeating the hellgod, which she felt was fair -- seriously, everybody had already been way too up in her sex life! A girl deserved  _ some _ privacy! -- but she was still feeling a bit weird about how it had all settled out.

Dawn had still been asleep when she and Spike had descended to the lower level to check on her. Which was good; it meant she hadn’t been around for Clem’s little nudge-nudge, wink-wink passing of the baton to them -- soundproof stone slab, her ass! -- and she’d had time to get a little cleaned up before settling into an awkward time-killing game of cards with Spike. Who cheated. Badly.

When Dawn had finally awakened, it had been abrupt and explosive and shocking.

“Oh my god!” she’d shrieked, sitting bolt upright in Spike’s bed. “Ben! Ben is Glory!”

“Ben?” Buffy had set her cards aside, rushing over to stroke Dawn’s hair. “Ben the cute intern?” She ignored the faint, affronted growl from Spike, and also the traitorous internal voice telling her Ben wasn’t nearly as cute as Spike. That way lay badness.

Dawn had nodded, swallowing, eyes still a bit dazed from sleep. “I saw him! He turned into Glory, right in front of me. I don’t know why I forgot!” She started crying then, huge sobs of fear, and Buffy had held her close, meeting Spike’s eyes helplessly. He’d shrugged, apparently unconcerned now that he’d realized the “cute” intern was also now the “minus-a-head” intern.

“Don’t worry,” she managed to say at last. “I, um, took care of Glory. She’s gone, now.”

Dawn sniffled. “And Ben?”

“He’s, um… Well, he might be okay. But we probably won’t see him again. I bet he was only in town because Glory wanted to be here.”

“Oh.” Dawn had sniffled again, uncertainly.

“I bet he has a job just waiting for him at the Mayo Clinic,” Buffy lied.

Dawn seemed to buy it, though. “That makes sense. He’s a really good, um, almost-doctor.”

“He sure was. Is.” Buffy tried to mask her slip with more hugs. Dawn sniffled some more, and then sniffed.

“You smell funny.” She sniffed again. “Like when Mom burned the Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Oh, um, really?” Buffy laughed. “Must be from all the hellgod-smiting. I can take a shower when we get home.”

Dawn had rolled her eyes then, almost back to normal. “Like that’ll do any good, stinky-butt.”

“Oh, you’re back to insulting me. You must be feeling better.”

“You mean it, though?” Dawn’s face had been serious. “Glory’s really gone? Is Willow okay?”

“Yeah. Willow’s fine, and I…  _ Spike  _ and I took care of Glory.” 

Spike had laughed then, shortly. “Wasn’t me. Your sis, she took out Glory on her own.” There was a brief pause, then the sound of glass clinking and liquid pouring. “She’d do anything for you.”

Buffy had looked over her shoulder then. Spike had poured himself a tumbler of the Scotch and was staring into it, a faint frown on his face. A dozen things she could say to him rushed into her head, but not one of them was Dawn-appropriate, and so she simply sighed. “Spike helped a lot. He’s… he’s a good ally, and a good friend.”

He tossed back half the glass. “Cheers for that.”

There hadn’t been a lot Buffy could say after that. What was the appropriate etiquette for public conversation with a still-basically-evil guy who’d just gifted you with a mind-blowing, world-saving one-night-only sexapalooza? In the end, Dawn had wanted to go home -- but not to school, she just could not handle a Monday, she totally deserved to call in, right? -- and so Buffy had watched while Dawn hugged Spike, envying her innocence, and then it was her turn to say goodbye, and she’d lamely taken his hand in hers and mumbled something inane and meaningless, and then when Dawn had turned and started for the ladder, she’d gone up on tiptoes and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek.

“Please don’t leave,” she’d whispered, knowing she was being unfair.

He looked at her darkly. “ _ Ad te da mihi potestatem _ ,” he’d growled and taken another drink.

She took that as agreement.

The next few days had passed in something of a blur. She’d called Giles as soon as she got home, of course, just to give him a look-Ma-no-apocalypse heads-up, and then Willow had called her a bit later, crying with relief because Tara had come back to herself, and then Xander had called, apparently just to confirm the rumors, and she’d convinced him to come watch a movie with Dawn so that she could sleep for a few hours. She’d hoped that sleeping would help clear her mind, allow her to process events. It did, a little, but there was just so much thinking to do, there was no way she could get through it in just one day. So she’d thought, and she’d scribbled down some notes, and she’d composed an appropriately-censored report for Giles, and she’d replayed the uncensored version over and over in her head, and she hadn’t patrolled once.

The movie night plans had gone on around her, and she hadn’t really participated, except for one or two things she really had to do herself, but when they’d finally gathered, filling her living room to the brim with people she loved, she’d taken a deep breath and settled into the _ rightness _ of it. It had been, truthfully, a really crappy year, and it would probably take her a while to fully recover from it, but she knew this was the source of her strength, this motley group of people, and she could do this.

She could live.

The doorbell rang about halfway into  _ Independence Day _ , and Dawn bounded up to get it; she was still excited as a puppy over the new freedom she was enjoying now that she wasn’t on a hellgod’s hit list.

“Did you order more pizza?” Xander asked in confusion, staring at his slice of pepperoni.

“Spike!” Dawn’s squeal of excitement cut off abruptly, and she whispered -- loud enough for everyone to hear, of course, because Dawn -- “What are you doing here? Buffy’s going to blow a gasket!”

“I invited him,” Buffy called out calmly from her seat on the couch. As one, the Scoobies’ heads turned towards her: Synchronized Incredulity, Team Event.

“Really?” Dawn bounced back into the room. “Come on, Spike, you can sit by me.”

He paused at the edge of the carpet. “Clem sends his regrets. Prior engagement.” 

“Really? That’s too bad.” Buffy scooted over towards the arm of the couch, making room between her and Dawn. “He strikes me as a fan of the Goldblum oeuvre.”

“You invited Spike?” Xander’s eyes were popping out.

Buffy shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Well, this pizza party is to celebrate averting the apocalypse. Spike helped with the averting. Ergo, he gets to have some pizza.”

“I brought booze,” Spike sniffed sullenly, scowling with wounded pride.

Buffy gave him a stern look. “Legally purchased?”

He rolled his eyes. “Gave me the bloody rules, didn’t you?”

“Well, I hardly think a gift of alcohol is going to turn us up sweet,” Giles grumbled, turning in his chair. “It doesn’t-- Is that Lagavulin?” He adjusted his glasses, peering at the label.

“Look,” Buffy said, standing up. “I know this is a little weird. And I can’t decide for any of you who you associate with. But we’ve always given the benefit of the doubt to people who want to fight for good, even people who’ve done us wrong in the past. Anya used to be a vengeance demon. Giles used to summon demons for funsies. Cordelia spent her whole life as a bully and a snob. And the rest of us… well again, I can’t speak for you guys, but I know I’ve got some things I should be ashamed of.” She took a deep breath. “Spike’s proved himself to me. He stood up to Glory in the face of torture, and then helped me to defeat her. He wants to be our ally. I want to give him a chance.” She met Spike’s eyes then, quivering at the expression she found there.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “How long did it take you to write that speech?”

“A few days,” Buffy said wryly. “Though that was really just the thinking part. Once I’d figured things out, the speechy part was easy.” She looked around at her friends again. “Like I said, you get to make your own choices. But I can’t in good conscience have a party and not invite the guy who helped make it happen.” 

Willow raised her eyebrows, smiling. “It’s your party, and you’ll invite a vampire if you want to?”

“Basically.”

Giles cleared his throat. “I have to say, you’re taking quite the risk. What do you propose to do if you’re wrong?”

She smiled slowly. “Oh, Spike already knows he’s on probation.”

“Said she’d stake me in a heartbeat if I get out of line,” Spike added. “And gave me a list of her expectations in writing. Everything from stopping the apocalypse to helping little old ladies cross the street.” He flickered a brief amused glance at Buffy’s face. “It was extremely detailed.”

“What can I say?” Buffy breezed, feeling her cheeks turning pink. “I like to be thorough. Now, if we’re all done with today’s Buffy Intervention, there is a Diet Coke in the fridge with my name on it, and I am pretty sure we are about to reach the scene with the dog and the fireball.”

“Ooh, my favorite part!” Anya chirped, snuggling up to Xander’s chest. He glared at Spike and wrapped his arm around her.

Buffy strode proudly towards the kitchen, listening to Dawn inviting Spike to sit next to her again and the awkward resumption of conversation. 

She wasn’t surprised when Giles followed her into the kitchen. He was less impressed by dogs and fireballs than normal people.

“I’m not going to argue with you about this any further,” he said quietly when they were alone. “In fact, I once approached Spike with a similar offer of cooperation. But I did want to ask, as your report was remarkably vague. What exactly  _ did  _ Spike do to assist with Glory’s downfall?”

She should have known he’d catch on to that. “Oh, this and that. You know, keeping the minions off my back. Taking care of Dawn.” She took a sip of her Diet Coke. “Helping me out with a ritual.”

“A ritual? What sort of--” His mouth gaped open. “Oh, dear Lord.”

“Worked like a charm!” Buffy chirped.

“Buffy, you can’t mean to tell me--”

“Oh, I don’t mean to tell you a darn thing. That report held all you need to know. I strongly recommend you forget anything else you may have read, inferred, or especially translated.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I must say, you’re awfully calm about this whole situation.”

“Well,” Buffy said, taking another fortifying sip. “Hellgod go squish. Thus is the source of my calm.”

“Regardless, I could never have asked--”

“You didn’t ask,” she said softly. “I chose. And I have no regrets.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the rest of her negotiations with Spike, either. It wasn’t anybody’s business if her latest ally was also in the running to be an ally-with-benefits, depending on how his probation went.

Or what they’d done to seal the deal.

Giles was still mumbling something about fates worse than death and blah blah blah. God, he was so high-strung sometimes. It was just intercourse. He needed to get into the twenty-first century.

“I’m not going to tell you to relax,” she broke in when he seemed likely to ramble on forever. “But I’ve figured out some of what makes Spike tick, and I think he’s going to end up being a valuable asset. Plus, just think of all the papers you can write about the process. Training a vampire to be good? They’ll publish you in the Watcher’s Journal for sure.”

He brightened at that, as she’d expected. Buffy may have dropped out of college, but in her time there she had figured out some things about the academic brain. 

“So hang in there, Giles. We have a bumpy road ahead, but Spike’s getting to be a pro at helping me avert apocalypses. He may need some extra guidance down the path of righteousness, but if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that he’ll do almost anything for the people he cares about. And right now, that means me and Dawn. It may even mean you; he sure didn’t spend his hard-gambled cash on stinky booze on my behalf. That’s not much, but it’s a start.” 

Giles shrugged thoughtfully.

“And don’t worry, Giles,” Buffy continued, patting him soothingly on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you a hat.”

 

THE END

  
  


 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> AUTHORS NOTES:
> 
> The Latin may or may not be correct. It’s Google Translate. I have no shame.
> 
> Written in December for Patron Prompt: “How bout a classic? Buffy and Spike need to get it on to save the world. Maybe a season 5 thing, but I'm not picky.”


End file.
